


You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go

by Hope



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Domestic, M/M, curtainfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-27
Updated: 2009-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-02 13:29:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ordinary end to an ordinary day. Except this is Torchwood, where ends tend not to be ordinary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to zortified and rexluscus for beta (and alpha!) help, and cupidsbow for listening to the story the first time around.
> 
> Mostly written before (and thus jossed by) Children of Earth, which makes it somewhat of an AU. Set post-S2.

Ianto's waiting for him when Jack gets up to the tourist office.

"You're lucky I didn't take the lift," Jack admonishes. "I told you to go ahead."

Ianto shrugs. "For all your 'I've been everywhere, done everyone and eaten everything'--" he gives Jack a Look when Jack smiles in fond, vaguely lewd reminiscence. "--You're a surprisingly picky eater. I don't want to cook a meal and have you turn your nose up at it."

Jack follows him outside. Even after a long day Ianto's still got a bit of strut left in his suited stride. Though that could just be because he knows Jack's watching.

"You just want someone to push your trolley," Jack retorts without heat, taking a few steps along the decking to look out over the evening slate of the Bay while Ianto locks up.

"No, I just want _you_ to push my trolley," Ianto says with an entirely straight face.

"Ahah," Jack says, hooking his arm through Ianto's as they start walking towards the Plass. "Finally, the truth is revealed."

"Finally?" Ianto's tone is more indulgent than scornful; he squeezes Jack's arm briefly in his elbow as they walk up the pale paving. It makes Jack want to grab him with both arms and waltz him up to where the water tower is poised, but he suspects that still talking in the flimsiest of metaphors about shopping trolleys means that Ianto might not approve of such extravagance just yet.

There are a few other people around, but it's a week night, so they're mostly other Mermaid Quay workers on their way home; the buzz of Millennium Centre attendees is peaceably absent. It's not quite dark yet, and Jack is abruptly glad that he made Gwen go home early already; it's mid-autumn, drifting downward into the long months where they'll only see sunlight if they go out in the field in the middle of the day.

This isn't sunlight, exactly. But at least it's not raining. Not now, anyway; as they cruise out of the garage and into traffic, the wheels of the cars around then send up a mist that's still faintly tinted gold by the sunset. The shadows around the bases of the buildings are inked a deep indigo, and Ianto flicks his headlights on as they drive through a built-up area. Jack's always found twilight kind of romantic in its own way.

Not to mention supermarkets. All those plump, gleaming packets of foods and sundries look so enticing under the brash shine of fluorescent lights. So ordered. So contrived. So _ordinary_.

Ianto walks the aisle with his head bowed as he taps at the screen of his PDA. Jack rests his forearms on the shopping trolley's handle and trails after him leisurely; smooth, ceaseless movement like a stalking shark. Jack smirks at the mental comparison, hunches his shoulders to pop his flipped collar a little higher.

Ianto turns back, frowning when he sees Jack's languid pose. "Rice or potatoes?" he asks.

Jack watches Ianto's fingers as they toy idly with the stylus. "Potatoes. You know, one day humans will come with these in-built carbohydrate moderators--"

"That's all very well, but for now you'll have to do with genuine British cuisine." They come to the end of the aisle, Ianto ventures briefly into the radiating cold of the nearby refrigerated cabinet, returning with a cling film-wrapped package. He tosses it into the trolley, Jack looks down: sausages.

"Bangers and mash?" Jack grins; Ianto gives him a warning look. "With mushy peas?"

"Only if you don't mind tinned," Ianto says, falling into step alongside Jack for a handful of paces, tucking the PDA into his breast pocket. The supermarket is crowded--everyone else is in the midst of their post-work hunger rush as well, after all--and soon Ianto needs to squeeze closer alongside to let another shellshocked-looking suited man to pass with his heavy-laden basket. Jack takes the opportunity to brush the side of his hand against the swell of Ianto's arse.

"Sorry," Ianto says to the woman standing in front of them with the double-wide stroller, facing them and not moving. They pause in the face of her unimpressed visage, at an impasse, at least until Ianto grips the side of Jack's trolley and steers them around her. "Honestly," Ianto mutters when they're around the corner, bringing the trolley to a halt with a steadying hand. "The entitlement of parents of small children..." He reaches over the trolley to grab a can off the shelf, then brandishes it at Jack. "Think you can gum this?"

Jack gives a toothy grin. "I may be thousands of years old, but none of these babies are falsies."

Ianto smirks. "Not the age inference I was making there, but nice to know anyway." He drops the can of peas into the trolley.

"Hey, falsies could be fun," Jack leisurely pursues the conversation with his usual pleasure in being contrary. "Though I suppose it could be a problem if they came out at an inopportune moment."

"Could say the same about you, Sir," Ianto says breezily as they approach the fresh produce displays, their own kind of novelty.

"Oh, don't play coy with me, Mr Jones."

Ianto flicks Jack an arched eyebrow that's more saucy that scornful, then leaves Jack to commune alone with the squashes while he goes in search of potatoes. It takes a little longer than Ianto expected to find them; Jack can tell by the look of mild disgruntlement Ianto's sporting when he returns, bag in hand. The souring of Ianto's mood is clear, enough to make Jack drop the planned quip about courgettes, and they walk to the checkout with the shortest queue in silence.

"Still not used to this car park," Jack murmurs when they step through the automatic doors and pause. Not that Jack really shopped all that much with Ianto back when his local was a Tesco's on the other side of town, but still, it's an acknowledgement of the shared stack of undermining trivialities that can grow tall enough cast their shadow over a good mood at any moment.

"This way," Ianto says, holding onto the edge of the trolley to help guide it as they walk across the tarmac with more speed than the indoor pace of stroll-and-browse, leading them to where he parked his car.

It's a short drive back to Ianto's house, and full dark by the time they get there, headlights flashing across its fresh-painted façade briefly as Ianto turns the car at an acute angle while parking in the road. The grill of the car in front of them in front of them leers in increasing brightness as Ianto eases into the space before he turns off the engine, flicking them into sudden darkness.

Jack forgets, again, tries to palm the light switch on as soon as he steps into the house before giving a growl of frustration; Ianto casts him a sympathetic glance as he turns the lights on in the kitchen, illuminating the rest of the open plan space well enough. "Sorry," Ianto says. "Forgot to buy bulbs, again."

Jack picks his way across the obstacle course of the living room, shaking his head a little at the speed with which Ianto had navigated it. Ianto raises an eyebrow in question when Jack dumps his armful of groceries on the bench with a long suffering sigh.

Jack gestures behind him. "They _must_ move about on their own when we're not looking."

"No, they don't," Ianto says, amused; though he looks over Jack's shoulders at the scattered boxes as if double-checking. "_I_ move them around while you painstakingly linger over a single box of ticket stubs."

"I can't help it if you're a heartless bastard without a shred of nostalgia."

"Good thing you're around to make up for my horrible lack, then." Ianto puts the food waste pail down in front of Jack, then hands him a vegetable peeler. "Potatoes."

"You know, rice doesn't require peeling."

"You should have thought about that while we were still at Sainsbury's, then."

They settle into the easy rhythm of cooking, Jack exchanging naked potatoes for a chopping board and onions. The rumble of the kettle and sizzle of the frying pan rises pleasantly, background noise for the metronomic sound of knife hitting wood. Jack blinks rapidly at the surge of burning moisture in his eyes, sniffing wetly and trying to wipe at his face with his sleeve without his onion-covered hand aggravating his face further.

"Here." Ianto edges around behind him, takes hold of Jack's lapels and eases his coat carefully off his shoulders. It'd been cold enough when they'd first got in that Jack hadn't felt the pressing need to take it off; with the kitchen firing up and onion fumes burning his sinuses, it's quite warm enough now, thank you very much. He grabs a tea towel from the hook at the end of the bench and rubs his face in it.

Ianto scowls, taking the towel off him, using it to twist the cap off a beer bottle before tossing the towel at the foot of the washing machine. He's taken his own jacket off already, and when he turns back to the hob Jack admires the shimmer of the back of his waistcoat over broad shoulders and way the low buckle highlights the taper of his waist.

"If you want gravy, you're going to have to keep chopping," Ianto says without turning around.

Jack takes a pull at the beer Ianto's left at his elbow, then keeps chopping.

After dinner, eaten from plates on their laps on the sofa, they sit back and survey the landscape of the living room. This is Jack's favourite part of their evenings (well, second favourite); unpacking the boxes of Ianto's past, uncovering tiny morsels of his personality that Jack can't help but gorge himself on. It's like a kind of decadence; as if in handling these artefacts of Ianto's personal history, somehow Jack's getting an extra serving of Ianto's lifetime.

And largely, it's a pleasant experience for Ianto as well. The boxes he'd packed up from the home he'd shared with Lisa had been dealt with while Ianto was on suspension. What clutters his new floor space now are carefully packed-up items from further in his past--his life with his family, before he left Cardiff for the first time; university years; trappings from his brief habitation of a bachelor pad.

Jack had never picked Ianto for a pack rat, but when challenged as such Ianto responded that Jack shouldn't be surprised, considering Ianto's career of preserving and organising all kinds of dross. Even so, much of this is new for Jack. He'd not spent much time at Ianto's old flat, but then again neither had Ianto; it'd been too small for more than one person to occupy for any length of time and surely held more painful memories than fond within its dim, constrictive walls.

The new house, however, is clearly new build; snapped up with the help of a Her Majesty's disaster fund hand-out and some judicious assigning of Torchwood's employee damages budgeting. Located in a largely unaffected part of town; the structural damage of the pokey flat in the bombings had made it easy for Ianto to slip out of the lease. Jack just hopes the miasma of _this_ home's beginnings don't taint any future enjoyment that might be gained from it.

So far it's doing well--so far _they're_ doing well; they're here, aren't they? Evenings of easy food, of Jack uncovering and admiring Ianto's collection of bongs, of Ianto derailing the entire process by explaining the history of every person captured in his photo album from 1999. Of Jack blowing Ianto on the sofa, of them both getting to sleep at an hour reasonable enough to wake again painlessly at six.

It's far from the desperation of the first month after coming out of cryo (after Tosh and Owen, after _Grey_). In the first month, turning the light out had felt like there was no one else left in the world, and not having Ianto touch him felt like tonnes of suffocating dirt pressing in at Jack from all sides. In the first month, the exhaustion at the end of every day came from the repeated blows of constantly turning around expecting to see members of his team he'd thought obsessively about for two thousand years but would never see again.

"Right," Ianto says at length. He stands, toeing the nearest box towards Jack. "You start on that one, then." He walks back into the kitchen, stacks their emptied plates into the sink then exits the room.

Jack listens to the dampening thud of Ianto jogging upstairs before sliding off the sofa and onto the floor, bracing his back against the front of it as he pulls the box towards him. The tape is brittle, and it comes off in one long, perfectly aligned strip.

At the top of the box is a carefully folded bit of red and white polyester that Jack unfolds to discover is a WRU flag. Lifting it out uncovers a huddle of bronzed sports trophies, all the same crudely crafted figure frozen in vaguely graceful motion, rugby ball balanced on a toe-tip, though the year engraved on the base changes. Jack examines them one-by-one; 1995, '96, '97... through to 2000. **IANTO H. JONES** they're branded; Jack smirks to think that there must have been more than one Ianto Jones for a middle initial to be required.

He lines the bronze rugby clones up along the carpet and pulls out the next item with not a little relish; it's a photo album, tacky vinyl cover with the outline of a rugby ball embossed into it. The serial nature of the photos contained within are not unlike some tame illustration of the development of puberty, and Jack can't help but laugh. The diminutive team in the first photograph squint at the camera from round, boyish faces, and it takes Jack a while to locate Ianto amidst all the dark hair and moderately sullen expressions, and even then he's not sure. He's surer on the next couple of photos, years on the date plates continuing to match the years on the trophies; Ianto's snub nose is a fairly identifiable feature. Jack knows it well enough.

The boys become more mismatched, heights and bulks varying but evening out at a more beefy level the further he flicks through, and Jack vaguely wishes he could have seen them on the field. 1998 and unmistakably there's _Ianto_, still squinting into the camera but at least faintly smiling this time, same familiar nose. Shoulders coming a little closer to actually filling out the red and green jersey, rather than just swimming in it, and just as tall if not taller than the boys on either side. The line of his jaw is still delicate, clean, and Jack flips forward a couple more years, eyes searching over the final photo, until, there--Ianto standing in the back row, this time, arms folded over his chest, and bizarrely like _his_ Ianto only a little more lean, expression blithe and fresh. Thighs powerful and bare below the shorts; a teenager's wet dream. Jack grins in delight.

"Ah. The rugby box." Ianto drops to the floor next to him and Jack's attention is drawn; Ianto brings with him the clean smell of water and soap. His body is still radiating heat from his shower, and the flush of it is visible in the pale skin of his forearms, his throat. He's wearing his version of pyjamas, a tee-shirt and a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms, and his body seems more fluid, more flexible without the constriction of a suit. He folds one knee beneath him, leans into Jack to look at the photo.

Ianto's hair is damp, and flops over his forehead. He's close enough that when Jack licks his lips, they brush against a sodden lock, cool and wet. Jack taps his finger against teenaged-Ianto's chest. "Please tell me you've still got this uniform."

Ianto snorts, then crawls a little way away to reach the box. He digs around in it briefly then pulls out a jersey with a flourish, its colours slightly more vivid than they are in the photograph.

"Wait a moment, I'm sure the shorts are in here too... Hah." Ianto resurfaces again with a smug grin, and Jack sets the album aside as Ianto kneels his way back across the carpet, sitting again astride Jack's lap.

Jack takes the uniform from him and rubs the fabric experimentally between his fingers. The shorts look even smaller in his hands than they did in the photograph. "So you're going to wear these, right?"

Ianto smirks, then shakes his head a little as Jack lifts the clothes to his face, breathing them in. They smell faintly of washing powder, disappointingly not a whiff of sporting teenage boy.

"Maybe," Ianto says. "If you're good," he amends half-heartedly.

Jack pouts a little. "I peeled the potatoes!"

"Yes, but you've not even got through one box. And all of those are going to have to go back into storage, I'm certainly not putting them on display anywhere..." Ianto turns his face away from Jack's to assess the hopeful queue of trophies; the gesture presents Jack with the corner of Ianto's jaw, not as smooth as in the photograph, but as sweet as Jack had imagined when he presses his open lips to the tender place beneath it.

"Did you do this when you were a teenager?" Jack murmurs below Ianto's ear before sliding his mouth down the side of Ianto's neck, then back toward the shadow of his jaw when Ianto tilts his head helpfully. Jack's tongue rasps against the bristle, lapping at the traces of water still caught there.

"What?" Ianto asks a little breathlessly. His thighs have tightened around Jack's already, body bending forward. His pragmatic nature extends to not seeing the point in pretending that Jack's not turning him on; Jack delights in the very immediate reward of that every time. He braces Ianto's waist with his hands, enjoying the sinuous flex against his palms. Ianto's voice burrs against Jack's lips. "Necking?"

Jack hums, closing his teeth around a patch of skin low on the column of Ianto's throat and sucking heat up to the surface of it. He tongues over the trapped flesh until it doesn't taste like water or soap, just the faintly salty metallic flavour of skin, blood-hot. Ianto squirms, and shifts his arms to the sofa behind Jack's head; Jack releases the grip of his bite reluctantly when Ianto grasps his hair with both hands and pulls him away.

Ianto's mouth tastes even better, and Jack's tongue chases the faint, fresh traces of toothpaste and mouthwash, a sharp contrast to the hearty flavours of their meal still lingering in Jack's palate. Ianto's lips are mobile, not just open for Jack to explore but closing around Jack's tongue, smiling then shifting. He directs the shape and pace of the kiss, tongue laving generously against Jack's then withdrawing, then closing his mouth over Jack's upper lip with gentle suction. Ianto's hands curl at the back of Jack's head, fingertips rubbing against Jack's scalp, and it makes Jack feel languid and inflamed all at once. He groans softly and tips his head back into Ianto's grip.

Ianto laughs, the sound a low, pleasant vibration against in Jack's hands, now resting against Ianto's back. His mouth leaves Jack's, dragging languorous kisses down the side of Jack's neck and nudging Jack's head into a further tilt, practically nuzzling at the corner of Jack's jaw.

"There was some necking," Ianto murmurs, the words hot against Jack's sensitised skin, and as Ianto continues to comb his fingers through the hair of Jack's nape, it sends a shiver of stimulation through the parts of his body Ianto's _not_ touching. Not yet, anyway.

Ianto draws back a little, hand sliding up Jack's forearm, gripping Jack's wrist and drawing Jack's hand down again. "But if it's locker rooms you're thinking of, there was a certain amount of _this_ going on, too." He presses Jack's hand against his groin.

Jack _loves_ tracksuit bottoms. Not the same way he loves the contradictory constriction of a well-worn suit, of course, but with his hand cupped in Ianto's lap now he can feel the precise shape and heat of Ianto's cock, twitching against the fleecy lining of the fabric and the pressure of Jack's touch. Ianto strokes Jack's wrist lightly and pushes his hips up--just a tiny amount, it must be involuntary--and Jack rocks his hand over where Ianto's holding it.

The fabric is decadently soft and Jack thinks he could spend much longer doing this; moving just slightly and feeling Ianto getting hard under the weight of Jack's covering touch. Ianto leans back further, though, enough to watch what Jack's doing, so Jack changes the touch from a hold to a gentle stroke. Ianto's chest expands as he draws in a deep breath, eyelids falling closed in a long blink. The loose fit of the bottoms allow his erection room to stand freely, and Jack watches the flutter of Ianto's dark eyelashes and the flush rising in Ianto's cheeks as Jack twists a cap of fabric around the head of his cock, knuckle scoring over the tip.

"Ah," Ianto says, eyes cracked open just a little and slanted up at Jack's face. His pink lips bow in a smile that Jack might even call mischievous. "Though, there was a little less of that, little more of this..." He wraps Jack's hand around the shaft, slides loose fabric in Jack's grip up and down his cock in stereotypical wanking fashion.

Jack laughs, and as hot as the thought of sweaty, sporty, teenaged Ianto is; twenty-something Ianto holds even more appeal, pyjama-clad and smirking in Jack's lap. Jack kisses him again, taking control this time where Ianto's mouth is less focused, concentration undoubtedly on the stroke of Jack's hand on his cock. Ianto's hand clasps loosely around Jack's wrist, and Jack ignores the urge to get Ianto to return the favour, press against Jack's own rising erection. It's pleasure enough, for now, to see and feel Ianto incrementally lose control.

Jack leans his forehead against Ianto's and pulls his mouth away, sharing Ianto's exhale. This close, Ianto's eyelashes blur sootily against his cheeks, his lips gleaming and breath hot. Jack pulls the elastic of Ianto's tracksuit bottoms down and rubs his thumb against the bare tip of Ianto's cock; Ianto's toes curl into the thick pile of the carpet. The clean scent of his arousal rises from his hot body, Jack's senses rushing to greet it.

"Bed?" Jack suggests, voice rough in his throat.

Ianto opens his eyes, and with his pupils blown and cheeks flushed, the half-hearted eye roll is a portrait of languidness rather than sarcasm. "Not even got through one box, tonight," he says on a sigh. He leans back, and in bracing has hand on the floor to aid levering himself upright knocks over the row of rugby trophies. They thud dully against the carpet, and Ianto picks one up as he stands.

"You know," he says, hefting it thoughtfully. "Perhaps we don't need to put them all away; this would quite come in handy for bludgeoning any unwanted intruders."

"That's what I keep a baseball bat under the bed for," Jack deadpans. "And the several thousand pound security system, of course. Speaking of which, hold that thought." He turns Ianto in the direction of the stairs and gives him a helpful pat on the arse to get him going in the right direction, then turns himself to the keypad by the front door, keying in the codes to enable the alarm. The system is overkill, perhaps, for the rash of looting following the bombings; but considering the equipment they've set up in Ianto's spare room, it's far from excessive.

Ianto's standing by the bed, leaning down to flick the lamp on. He straightens when Jack steps up close behind him, pressing his arse back against Jack's erection in the process. Jack's hands glide over his flanks before hooking thumbs into the waistband of the tracksuit bottoms, pushing with just enough suggestive force to slide them down an inch or two. It uncovers enough for Jack to palm the handles of Ianto's hip bones, scratch fingernails through the top of the dark hair that thickens towards Ianto's cock. Then Ianto's turning in Jack's arms and they're kissing again, standing there pressed tight together with a perfectly good bed right next to them.

Ianto curls one arm around the back of Jack's neck and lays his other hand on Jack's chest. It's barely still a moment before following the contours mapped out by pinstripe, Ianto stroking down the line of buttons with a lingering touch before tangling his fingers in the chain of Jack's pocket watch. Jack grins, he can't help it; Ianto only ever seems as taken by such trappings when he's out of a suit himself. Still, Jack supposes that if they were both such sartorial hedonists _all_ the time, they'd never get any work done.

"Locker rooms were all very well," Ianto says conversationally, unbuttoning Jack's waistcoat with single-handed dexterity. "But I must say I prefer being able to bring men back to my own bed."

"Men?" Jack asks, unable to keep the hopefulness out of his tone; though, if he's honest with himself, he's not even bothering to try. "Plural?"

Ianto smirks, then hangs up Jack's waistcoat on the knob of the bedpost. He pulls his own tee-shirt off, then gets on the bed, making himself comfortable on his belly, chin resting on his folded forearms. The waistband of his jogging bottoms just covers the top curve of his arse. "If you'd like to go and get another one right now, then by all means, run along."

Jack kneels astride Ianto's thighs then rests his hands on Ianto's arse, fingers tucking under the elastic waist band. "Maybe later," he murmurs. "Something just came up." He grins at Ianto's laugh, generously gifted at that cheap shot, then leans down to tongue the dimples in the small of Ianto's back.

Later, and the sweetness of Ianto's clean skin has been replaced with the more familiar bite of sweat, come and spit; the perfect combination for Jack to fall asleep to, lingering in his senses as he and Ianto lie close. It's late enough to not bother getting up again, anyway; early enough that they might just wake up refreshed enough to have another go. Another shower for Ianto, perhaps, and Jack can join him; taste the metallic tang of the hot water and thicker heat of Ianto's come all at once.

It's not as if Jack has difficulty sleeping, it's just not as _necessary_ for him as it is for most humans in the 21st century. That isn't to say he doesn't appreciate a nice bit of shut-eye when the conditions are right. So he rouses immediately--albeit reluctantly--when the monitor on the bedside table crackles to life.

Jack rolls away from Ianto to squint towards it; they've drifted off with the lamp still on, and the first thing Jack sees on the bedside table isn't the portable monitor but the glowing bronze lines of the rugby trophy. Jack snorts softly in amusement, and Ianto stirs behind him. Jack reaches out to switch off the light and swings his legs around, sitting up on the edge of the bed. He picks up the monitor, eyes scanning through the truncated data being displayed on its back-lit screen.

"Whassit?" Ianto rolls after him; Jack glances down at the movement but Ianto seems barely awake. He curls on his side, face close to Jack's hip, and pulls the last of the duvet off Jack's lap, sleepily fidgeting to draw it tight in around him. The silvery cast of light from the portable monitor is strangely flattering; highlighting individual strands in the tousled mess of Ianto's hair and the delicateness of his eyelids, the dim light providing as much an abundance of detail as the long exposure of a silver-plate photograph.

Ianto's nose snubs up just above the edge of the pulled-up duvet, ordinary and brilliant. Jack shakes his head, turning the monitor away to let it light up the path out of Ianto's bedroom and across the hall to the spare room. The lights of the Rift monitoring equipment in there provide enough illumination that his eyes barely need time at all to adjust when he flicks the overhead bulb on.

The portable device is little more than a baby monitor, alerting the occupants of the bedroom to any anomalies being detected by the equipment set up here, and Jack spends fifteen frustrating minutes trying to coax some more information out of the machines before giving up.

It's a temporal anomaly, but there's no way to tell just what _sort_ beyond the general verdict that it's something to do with time, not space. The only additional information the monitors are providing is a general vicinity. If it were something major, Jack's sure it would have shown up as more than the briefest blip on their monitors, but the mere thought of being less than absolutely thorough is still enough to make him feel more than a little nauseous.

Being less than completely thorough with his team had been enough to lose one of them; getting to Toshiko in time to hold her while she breathed her last, instead of in time to _save_ her.

Jack pads back across the hall, setting the monitor on the bedside table again. He fumbles around for clothes in the dim light its screen casts out across the floor, chilly enough at this point, not to mention eager to get out there and just get back again, that he doesn't pay much mind to co-ordination.

Ianto stirs again, lifting his head this time and squinting in Jack's direction.

"Rift monitor," Jack murmurs quietly, pulling on a tee-shirt and then his shirtsleeves over it, coming back the edge of the bed to locate his vortex manipulator and strap it on. It's probably the only thing that's likely to pick up any more information at the scene; doubly more reason for Ianto to just stay in bed.

"I'll just get dressed," Ianto mumbles, right on cue, and his body is still loose and malleable when Jack presses him back to the bed.

"Stay here," Jack growls. "It's just a blip, probably nothing." Ianto's eyelids flutter closed, lashes scraping against Jack's palm when Jack strokes a light hand over his face. "Go back to sleep."

Jack's breath fogs in the air when he gets outside, the tiny particles of moisture lit up by the oily yellow of the street light outside Ianto's house. The hum of electricity being fed to the lampposts is the only sound, and Jack is reluctant to break it with the rumble of a car engine. He's awake now, anyway; a brisk walk won't do him any harm and the anomaly is too close to justify _having_ to take Ianto's car. He wraps his coat tighter around him and starts walking.

He knows he's in the vicinity of the anomaly when the data output from his wrist strap becomes mildly more concentrated--even though it's not any more coherent than it was back at Ianto's. The new build of Ianto's neighbourhood is in a previously industrialised area, and parts of it are still disturbingly post-apocalyptic. The uninhabited lots contain skeletal beginnings of new houses co-existing with abandoned, rusting equipment, casting the surrounds a personality that's half-machinic and half-domesticised. The landscape is dotted with cubes of building materials too, swaddled in black plastic to protect them from the rain, and the covering crackles faintly ominously with a night time breeze that Jack can't feel. Nonetheless, he feels the hair rise on the back of his neck and prickle along his arms.

Slow, experimental pacing along a residential access alleyway reveals discomfiting physical indicators of the anomaly as well. Jack's mouth twists at the tang of ozone on the air, and the skirt of his coat crackles with static electricity where it brushes against the cotton of Ianto's tracksuit bottoms, pulled on in Jack's haste and the blindness of the dark bedroom. Jack tries to concentrate on the data, as if he can force his mind to make any more sense of it.

Then he can feel the breeze again, and the garbled output from the wrist strap ebbs; Jack shakes his head in frustration. There's clearly nothing out here, nothing of an immediate threat anyway, and he can think of a few pieces of equipment back at the Hub that just might produce better readings. Or, at least read across a broader spectrum. Perhaps the anomaly wasn't temporal at all; or, if it was, of a far lower key than he usually recognises as an indicator of a new Flat Holm resident--perhaps a discarded cigarette butt was transported a few seconds into the future.

He shakes his head again, more in self-deprecating amusement this time, and now that the decision to return to bed has been made, he's suddenly impatient for it. Not least of all because he's _cold_. Ianto's pyjamas are only meant to tease Jack in that brief window of time before they fall into bed, not actually keep anyone _warm_. Certainly not anyone who's currently outdoors.

Jack wriggles his sockless feet in his boots, his toes feeling more than a little bit numb. He speeds up his pace, half-jogging; he'll get inside, toe off his shoes, shed his coat and crawl into bed again. He'll press his icy feet against the furry heat of Ianto's calves, the speediest route to warming them. This will probably wake Ianto, who'll probably feel some kind of pay back is required. Hopefully the kind of pay back that involves Jack being fucked.

The bilious tone of the street lamps is precisely the same as he left it, giving the impression that no time has past at all in the stagnant night outside of Ianto's house. Jack locates the saw-toothed edge of the house key in his pocket by touch, and, pleased with himself for remembering the dud bulb for a change, doesn't bother trying the light switch when he steps inside.

Jack closes the door as quietly as possible behind him, toeing off his boots and keying in the security code disarm at the same time. After pocketing his keys and shedding his coat he resets it again, then pads quickly across the--_ow, dammit_. The living room is inky around him with his eyes still blinded from the light of the security panel; Jack's unable to see what he's just barked his shins against, but it's no doubt another one of the boxes. Ianto hadn't taken him seriously the first time, but Jack's surer than ever that they move around on their own.

Jack's eyes have become a little more accustomed by the time he gets back to Ianto's bedroom, so he's able to avoid bashing into anything as he makes his way as stealthily as possible from doorway to bed. He doesn't want to wake Ianto up, at least not _yet_; still harbouring anticipation for wrapping himself around Ianto's sleep-soft body and feeling Ianto come awake that way. Jack eases himself under the duvet and reaches out--

Now, that's unexpected. It must have been colder than Jack thought, because Ianto certainly wasn't wearing _anything_ when Jack left him left than an hour ago. Jack's absence must have left him cold enough to rouse and locate something to wear. Unless it's another one of Ianto's games.

Jack shifts closer, reaching for Ianto's hip and wriggling his hands under the pyjamas. Not wanting to startle Ianto _too_ much, he accompanies it with a murmured question close to Ianto's ear. "Just _what_ do you think you're--"

It's hard to tell precisely what happens next; it's fast, and the darkness of the bedroom far too disorienting to make sense of the sudden movement. All Jack knows is that he's suddenly on his back and there's a hand at his throat. Then there's the very definite sound of a gun being cocked.

Jack swallows under the pressure of the grip on his neck, otherwise holding very still. "Ianto?"

The grip tightens in a spasm, then loosens, and then the room's flooded with soft light as Ianto flicks the lamp on. Jack blinks dumbly at him, still staying where he's been put; even if Ianto can't kill him he's in no mood to be shot right now. Ianto's backing away, the bed recoiling a bit as Ianto kneels off it, not turning away, even for a moment. He stands with both hands on his weapon, still pointing it at Jack's face.

"Mind telling me what the hell is going on?" Jack asks very calmly.

"How do I know it's you?" Ianto rasps, and Jack blinks, mind abruptly whirring into gear; the question doesn't exactly make anything any _clearer_, but if nothing else it's a billboard-sized sign that _SOMETHING IS WRONG_.

Ianto's gaze flits from Jack's face down his body, taking in the mish-mash of clothing that Jack had fished from Ianto's floor less than an hour ago. He'd crawled back into bed with thoughts of Ianto chuckling while he peeled them off again, but now Ianto's reaction is to appear even more unsettled by whatever the outfit tells him. The muzzle of the pistol dips as the fierce control of his expression wavers.

Taking it as a cue, Jack takes a moment to look closer as well; yes, Ianto's dressed, but those aren't pyjamas Jack's ever seen before. There's a framed photograph hanging on the bedroom wall over Ianto's shoulder. And along with the bronze rugby player, Ianto's bedside table is covered with papers, half-drunk glasses of water, vitamin bottles and a book or two. At least a week's worth of detritus.

Which doesn't make sense, because Jack watched Ianto _build_ that table from its Ikea flatpack _yesterday_.

And since when did Ianto sleep with a gun under his pillow?

Ianto's eyes are wide, mouth very still; the main indicator that he's trying to keep his emotions in check. "It is... Where the fuck have you _been?_" His voice is raw.

"There was a blip on the monitor," Jack says, starting with the obvious. It's amazing how calm he can keep his voice, even as the _something is wrong_ feeling is swelling in his throat, on its way to choking him. "It looked like a temporal anomaly; I left you here and went to check it out with my wrist strap. It was nothing, just some unintelligible feedback, the epicentre a few blocks away--if you could even call it that. I figured we'd be able to get better readings with equipment from the Hub tomorrow morning, so I came back here. It's been..." he glances at Ianto's alarm clock, but he can't remember what time it was when he got out of bed the first time, so the gesture's useless. He shrugs. "Forty-five minutes, maybe an hour."

The gun lowers, though Ianto doesn't put it aside; keeping it tight in his right hand. Though he braces that beside him as he sits down on the edge of the bed. "It's been two years, Jack."

Jack can't speak. Can't look away, though Ianto doesn't turn. The leaden bend of Ianto's bowed neck is too candid for this to be anything but reality. Jack can barely _breathe_.

It's Ianto who fills the silence again. "What do you remember?"

"I told you, there was nothing else, the anomaly--" Jack's voice comes out as a croak.

"No, I mean... About that night."

About... That night. Tonight for Jack, _that night, two years ago_ for Ianto. Jack swallows futilely.

"Cooked. Bangers and mash, with mushy peas. Unpacked your old rugby gear." His eyes flit again to the trophy on the bedside. When he licks his lips he can still taste Ianto in the corners of his mouth. His neck still feels faintly tacky from the residue of Ianto's kisses when he rubs his hand against it, and tender from Ianto's more recent restraining grip. "You had a shower, we shagged, went to sleep early. Ianto--"

Jack reaches out, unable to talk any more, desperate to feel that curve of Ianto's back under his hand, to know that this is _real_. Ianto stands up, though, thumbing the safety back on the pistol, though he doesn't put it down again. Jack still can't stop looking at him, heart jerking in his chest when Ianto partially turns back to him. But as much as Jack's desperately scanning for indicators of difference, of _change_, Ianto's profile is unreadable.

_Two years._

Ianto picks his mobile phone up from the bedside table. "I need to call Gwen, tell her... Tell her what's happened."

"Ianto, wait." He looks at Jack, then, and his eyes are still a little too wide, jaw tight. "How _do_ you know it's really me?" (What if this isn't Jack's Ianto at all, what if he's stepped through the Rift into some parallel universe?)

Ianto's shoulder makes a twitching motion, a faint echo of a shrug. "If you were an impostor... Then you shouldn't know all of that." His mouth twists--Jack realises it's meant to be a reassuring smile. "Gwen's the only other one who does." Then he's turning away again, fiddling with the phone as he leaves the room.

Jack hears the quieting thuds of Ianto's feet on the stairs, and then the bedroom's silent again but for the harsh drag of his own breathing.

Jack sits up.

The bedroom is tidier than it was when he left it; of course the clothes he shed two years ago aren't still lying underfoot, or draped from Ianto's bedposts. There's a rug on the floor that Jack's never seen before, dark blue offsetting the pale cream of the carpet. It feels worn against the bare soles of his feet.

When he steps out into the hall he can hear the low, wordless murmur of Ianto speaking below, and Jack teeters a bit where he stands because--

Another wave of comprehension rushes up on him, the relentless, incoming tide of it methodically eating away the shore of his calm. _Two years. Two years._ And Gwen's still alive. Ianto's still alive. Obviously they haven't required Jack to be around to rescue them on a regular basis in order to survive, but if anything, that thought just increases the rising, nauseating sense of helplessness. Because the risk of working for Torchwood is perpetual regardless of Jack's protective presence. Which, of course, is why the lifespan of a Torchwood agent is so short.

And Jack's just missed two years of it.

He doesn't quite remember the next few steps from the hall into the bathroom. He feels remote from his body, as if someone's just struck it like a massive bell; leaving a core of intense sound surrounded by a trembling shell. His ears are ringing, the sound of the water running from the faucet and into the drain muffled; he cups his hands under it and lowers his face into the collected liquid. The shock of cold brings him back a little, but the sense of unavoidable displacement remains; his face in the mirror still the most familiar thing in the room. There are two toothbrushes in the glass beside the basin, and Jack doesn't recognise either of them.

"Jack?"

The panic in Ianto's tone is clear, and Jack steps back out of the bathroom and into the hall immediately, face dripping. "In here."

Ianto's head jerks around, turning from the bedroom doorway at the sound of Jack's voice. His eyes are faintly red; he closes them for a long moment. "I thought-- Never mind. Are you all right?"

Jack huffs, too bitter for amusement. "As can be, yeah."

He wants to turn the question back on Ianto, but feels just as disconnected there as he does with the rest of his environment. Ianto's made no move to approach him, body language practically projecting a solid barrier several feet around him. Jack's body aches with the thwarted urge to just _go_ to him, properly aware abruptly at just how ingrained that urge had become in recent months and how automatically he'd give into it. 'Recent months'.

The irony of that realisation under present circumstances isn't lost on him. He just doesn't appreciate it at all.

"Is Gwen...?"

"She wants us to come in." Ianto shrugs a little. "It's nearly morning, anyway. I'm just going to have a shower first, if you..." Ianto trails off on the unspoken request.

"Right." Jack says, stepping out of the way. "I'll wait downstairs, then."

He tries not to read too much into the relief that flits over Ianto's features, or the way Ianto tilts his head down and body away as they pass each other in narrow hall.

"Jack." He turns back at the top of the stairs; Ianto's standing where Jack was just moments before, poised in the bathroom doorway. "Your clothes are in the wardrobe, far right, closest the window." His gaze flicks down over Jack's body briefly, then back to his face. "Should make you a bit more presentable."

"Right." Jack says again, and hazards a smile.

Ianto's answering quirk is tentative, but warm nonetheless, then he's in the bathroom and the door's closed behind him.

The clothes Jack wore yesterday are slotted in at the end of a row of suits, trousers folded over the bar of the hanger, waistcoat slung neatly over its shoulders. They've been washed and pressed, just smell faintly of washing powder when Jack brings them to his face and gives an experimental inhale.

His socks, also clean, are rolled up in one waistcoat pocket, his pants in the other. The pants have been neatly folded, and Jack can't help but laugh. It's simultaneously ridiculous and _awful_, and he suspects refusing to change out of what he's wearing now will only make things worse.

Ianto tells him it's winter, so the sun's not yet risen by the time they start the drive to the Hub. Most of Cardiff's morning commuters will be on their way while it's still dark, but for now the world's almost empty, streets still lit with the sickly public lighting, and the very occasional set of headlights winking cleanly at them as they pass. Time almost feels foreshortened rather than stretched out; for Jack, it was only hours ago that Ianto was driving them through the dark in the opposite direction.

Ianto doesn't speak. His face is like a cameo, profile thrown into relief by the faint lights from the dash, encircled by the asymmetrical frame of the car window behind him. Jack speaks as they pull smoothly into the underground garage, attempting to soften the brittle nature of the silence before they get inside, all too aware that they're about to take their places in a tableau even more emotionally fraught.

"Surprised you could rouse Gwen at this hour," he murmurs. "Let alone get her to come in before sunrise, especially when there's no emergency." At least, he hopes there's no emergency. His anxiety flirts with the thought that Ianto's removal from his personal space is due to simmering resentment, and Ianto is merely leading Jack to the Hub in order to wreak his revenge. Or subject Jack to whatever means necessary to _prove_ he's who he says he is. The wrong-footedness of his immediate situation means that Jack's unable to dismiss the idea immediately, his lack of control throwing him back to countless years of working _for_ Torchwood rather than running it; he's aware just what such an interrogation of identity involves.

Ianto brings the car to a halt before answering, looking at Jack for the first time in the short drive. "She didn't have to come in," he says. At Jack's frown of confusion, he adds, somewhat strained: "She lives here. Has since Rhys died."

Grief hits Jack as solidly as a punch, a palpable feeling at last rather than the decentralised numbness that's yet to loosen its grip. Not only because Rhys is--_was_\--a good man, not just good for Gwen but in his own right; but because this is a more pointed, malicious pain. Gwen has survived, but she's suffered. Is probably _still_ suffering. Suffering that, perhaps, Jack could have prevented.

"Was it--"

"Torchwood," Ianto completes shortly. "Yes."

They get out of the car, the otherwise empty car park echoing with the twinned sounds of their doors slamming. Ianto waits until Jack joins him before heading toward the secure underground entry to the Hub, walking side-by-side even if separated by several paces.

"I'm surprised you've not got any more questions," Ianto says, tone unexpectedly light. He looks at Jack and smiles faintly when he catches Jack looking back.

"About Rhys?" The more he thinks about it--thinks about _two years_, not just the fate of Rhys Williams--the more insurmountable the temporal gap feels. Ianto could give him more details on Rhys' death, but how would that help him face Gwen? With more guilt? Or more pity? He's lived long enough to know that the living of one's life is not in the reporting of distinct events but the constant flow of overlapping experiences--be they internal or external. Even reading two years' worth of incident reports won't fill him in on the breadth and depth of Ianto and Gwen's lives in his absence.

"About everything. Things in general. Torchwood."

_And you?_ Jack wants to add in question, but Ianto's stopped looking at him again--or, he _had_ his head turned down to watch where he was walking; now he stands by the security key pad at their car park entrance and turns to face Jack. His expression--somewhat guarded, as if he's on the edge of a flinch as he waits for Jack to speak--makes Jack think that Ianto knows exactly what Jack wants to ask, but is willing him not to.

"It's not like you can tell me everything in the next ten minutes," Jack answers, taking pity on Ianto even as he longs for that impossibility--an information dump that would catch him up instantly. Or even just the opportunity to demand just why Ianto's not letting him within touching distance. Both answers seem just as unlikely under present circumstances. He's not sure he even has the _right_ to the latter, though the sting of that is just as new and sudden a thing to adjust to.

The first thing Jack notices is the absence of the remaining debris of Tosh and Owen's lives and deaths, and it adds another twist to his bitterness; _he's_ not had time enough to heal from that wound, and yet time has marched on without him. The shape of the Hub is the same as it was last time he saw it, but the configurations within are different, desks and displays unfamiliar, as well as the detritus of people, of _staff_, he realises, resting dormant before the day begins and they sound off the personalities of those keeping them at hand.

They're all foreign to him, personalities Jack has never encountered, because of course there has to be new staff--they were struggling with just the three of them, and as fierce his faith in Gwen and Ianto are, there's no way they could have kept Torchwood Three going on their own. Jack can't resent it. He wonders just who's running it now, whether they defaulted to UNIT, in the end, or Archie up in Glasgow. How long did it take them to admit defeat and ask for help? How long did they look for him?

"Gwen?" Ianto calls out as he reaches the centre of the Hub, Jack trailing behind him. The fact that Ianto's not in a suit--battered jeans and a zippered hoodie in place of a pressed three-piece--merely compounds the unreality of the space to Jack's eyes.

Jack had expected Gwen to be waiting to greet them--the anxious flutter in his chest telling him just how unsure he is of his welcome, unsure if she'll respond as Ianto has. For all that Ianto's reserve contrasts Gwen's effusiveness--regardless the emotion--Jack's found them to be each as frank as the other, and neither less intense in their expression. It occurs to him that being uncertain as to whether Gwen will punch or embrace him is cause for hope.

Ianto walks now towards Jack's office and Jack follows mutely, and a little slower as Ianto strides up the stairs leading to it with a comfortable ease. Jack stops when he gets to the doorway.

The collection of artefacts and knick-knacks he'd been accumulating with an air of intergalactic junk shop are all absent, as is the sofa that Jack had against the far wall. The space left is instead filled by a second desk, Jack's own replaced by a smaller one and leaving room for two people to work in the room simultaneously. The door to Jack's quarters is open, and Gwen and Ianto stand by it, arms around each other. They draw apart after just a moment, and Ianto nods once as Gwen searches his face before he breaks the embrace entirely, stepping back as Gwen turns to Jack.

Jack's heart feels like it's caught in the base of his throat. He's still aware of Ianto watching them, but can't take his eyes off Gwen--she has no trouble meeting his eyes, staring into his face intently as she approaches, the line of her mouth firm and determined. Her face is more angular, made more striking by the choppy line of her cropped hair against the side of her jaw.

His name still sounds the same in her voice, though; long with affection and sharper in her throat at either end. He tilts the edge of his mouth up hopefully and she returns it; between them they may have a single, faint smile.

"Ianto seems to think it's really you," she says. "And I'm inclined to agree. Doesn't mean you're getting out of following verification protocol, though." She pauses, her tone turning more amused. "God, I sound like _you._"

That last is directed at Ianto, and they exchange a look that Gwen quirks her head back to include Jack in it as well; self-deprecation and pride and camaraderie all in one.

This is _their_ office, Jack realises. They're at home in this space, as much as Jack ever was, and abruptly it makes sense intensely enough to slip a sharp, sympathetic pain below his breastbone. He spent years in here, waiting, living in the space beneath the office--Gwen's home, now--when there was no where else for him.

The protocol is familiar--he wrote it, after all--and Jack takes it as seriously as Gwen does through to the last. He waits until she's done with the paperwork before speaking again. It's odd, being on this side of the desk.

"Gwen," he says. "About Rhys..."

She closes her eyes for a moment, puts the paperwork aside. He sees her jaw tighten, nostrils flare briefly, miniscule expressions of emotions too tangled for him to easily identify.

"Jack," she says firmly. "No." The tone isn't gentle; this isn't absolution but it's not cold enough to be accusatory either, though when she walks around the desk to embrace him at last, her hold is strong enough to hurt.

"Go on, then," she says when she releases him, stepping back behind her desk. "Take the rest of the day off, while I figure out what to do with you."

Outside of her and Ianto's office, the Hub holds that sense of complacent anticipation it always seems to in the last hour or two before the day starts officially; something to do with the rustle and creak of Myfanwy as she settles into her eyrie, or the shift in the Hub's climate control as it begins to optimise for its daily increase in human occupation. Jack tries not to look at the other desks while he walks through the Hub, not just yet, but he can't really avoid looking at the tourist office when he walks through it. Apparently they now stock plush red dragon toys and ceramic sheep figurines. The old beige desktop has been replaced by a black flatscreen, photos of people he doesn't recognise winging the sides of it, and there's a white mug with lipstick marks around the rim sitting by the keyboard.

The small glass panel in the door sports a plastic sign, _WILL RETURN AT_ and then the moveable arms of an analogue clock face turned to 9.30. It flutters as Jack's coat brushes by it, and outside, the wintry dawn casts a veil of grey light over everything. The water of the bay is as still as a photograph.

He spots Ianto easily, the only figure standing out on the quay, unmoving as he leans against the rails that border the decking, his back to the water. He sees Jack approach, straightens a little; lifts out of his slouch and shoves one hand in his pocket, other elbow still resting back on the top rail. The dawn light makes the water metallic behind him, bright enough for Jack to see the expression on his face clearly; not suspicious but nonetheless apprehensive, waiting.

Jack leans against the rail beside him, close enough for the sides of their bodies to brush. Looking out over the water this close, the skin of it seems more alive, undulating softly like a sleeping body. Ianto is a warm, solid presence alongside him, and when Jack turns his head a little he can smell the faint crispness of Ianto's deodorant, milky coffee on Ianto's breath as he exhales.

"So," Jack says, leaning in a little. "You and Gwen?"

Ianto twitches as his nose puffs out air quickly; amusement, Jack thinks.

"Torchwood Widows' Club," Ianto says, angling his gaze towards Jack. It's more measuring than self-conscious, Jack thinks. "I suspect she'll be more cross at me now than at you, if that helps."

It doesn't, not really, and now that Jack's this close to Ianto he can't obey the _this far and no further_ barriers that Ianto's put up since he woke with Jack in his bed. Jack's not only close enough to touch, now, but to see that Ianto's breath is coming in speedy little heaves with forced pauses between them.

Jack feels a sympathetic tightness in his own throat, and swallows futilely around it. Ianto's hand is hanging loosely between them and Jack curls his hand around it. Ianto's skin is dry and warm, and Jack's flooded with a rush of relief as Ianto returns the tentative grip.

"Can I touch you yet?" Jack asks in a murmur, a little belatedly, but his read on Ianto's mood is finally right again; it's taken him a few hours to catch up with the two years Ianto's got on him.

Ianto's head dips a little towards him and Jack continues to lean into the movement, turning his body to press his chest against Ianto's side. Ianto's head stays lowered so Jack angles his own to suit it, not requiring Ianto to move any further as he presses a kiss up against Ianto's mouth.

Jack keeps his eyes open, sees Ianto's close before Jack's mouth even touches his, eyelashes a dark blur in Jack's vision. Ianto's mouth tenses enough for Jack to consider the kiss returned, then he opens his own just slightly enough to stroke his tongue against Ianto's lower lip. The lick is delivered with pressure enough to feel the contrast of the hot, smooth skin and plump yield of Ianto's lip and the very faint fuzz of the porous skin just below it.

Ianto sucks in another breath through his nose and Jack doesn't draw back, just interlaces his fingers with Ianto's and tightens his grip, the hold anchoring them in the moment. Ianto's lips part enough for Jack's tongue to dip inside, his own mouth watering at the cooler slick of Ianto's teeth, then the gentle returned touch of Ianto's tongue.

Ianto's hand comes to rest on the back of Jack's neck, and Jack's eyes slide closed finally as Ianto pulls his body closer, thumb brushing through the short hair at Jack's nape.

The next kiss is less tentative, the weight of Ianto's hand holding Jack to him and Ianto's own body immovable, pressed between Jack and the railings behind him.

Ianto's breath his hot against Jack's mouth when they draw apart again, and Jack processes the sensation of his words before their sounds. "That's a no, by the way."

Jack blinks his eyes open, his mind taking a moment to grind through the confusion and shift gears again, finally connecting Ianto's seemingly random statement to the unfinished conversation--about Gwen.

Jack raises an eyebrow, thinking of the second toothbrush in Ianto's bathroom. It overturns something small in his belly in a flurry of motion, and the sense of displacement--banished as he'd basked in the familiar warmth of Ianto's kisses--creeps through him again. Despite Ianto's proximity now, and his very literal hold on Jack, echoes of his distance send a sliver of hesitance into Jack's comprehension. It's not a familiar feeling to Jack; being unsure of his welcome.

"Not that I haven't had sex in two years." Ianto's mouth curves a little and Jack can't help but smirk back. Ianto shifts his grip on Jack's neck, hooking the crook of his elbow around instead. Jack lets himself be reeled in; their clasped hands pressed between their bodies. "But Gwen... Doesn't like to share."

"I suppose my hopes of bunking with her back in my old room won't go down so well, then," Jack says mournfully, a little breathlessly as something in his chest reels at Ianto's words.

Ianto chuckles briefly. "Don't be ridiculous, I've not been keeping your things in my spare room for the past eighteen months because I'm running self-storage in my spare time."

They're still close; Jack can feel the pounding of Ianto's heart reverberating into his own body, amplified when Ianto's chest swells against Jack's on each inhale. Ianto's face is flushed, and his expression recalls the look he wore while holding a gun in Jack's face not six hours ago. Like he's not certain that Jack's really here. Like he's afraid to believe it.

Jack kisses him again, letting go of Ianto's hand to wrap his arm around Ianto's back, his other hand cupping Ianto's jaw as he attempts to occupy as much of Ianto's personal space as possible.

There's only so much he can prove in public, though. Jack draws back enough to focus on Ianto's eyes again. Behind him, the skin of the bay is gradually flushing with colour as the sun rises. "Home?"

Ianto nods once, and Jack tries to step back but Ianto stops him, fumbles his hand between them to withdraw something from his hip pocket, depositing it into the pocket of Jack's waistcoat. Then he releases his hold, neatly side steps and walks the familiar path along the quayside towards the Plass; Jack can't help but watch.

"Come on," Ianto calls over his shoulder.

Jack dips his hand into his pocket curiously, and his fingertips brush over familiar polished curves and a heavy chain, metal warm from Ianto's own body heat. It's Jack's pocket watch.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hope.dreamwidth.org/1529563.html


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